The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [38]
“…poor bastard…”
“…sufficient, I trust, Magister Gilberto?”
I squinted and sat up, trying to still the swirling inside my brain.
“Sufficient, Tamra.” Gilberto’s voice was dry. “Are you all right, Lerris?”
My head felt like a log flayed out of its bark. My ribs were an unbroken ache, and Tamra was almost openly smirking. “Fine. Just fine.” Standing up required most of my remaining strength.
“Why don’t you take a hot shower?” suggested the weapons-master.
I didn’t even argue. Most of the time, whether the water was lukewarm or warm didn’t seem to matter. The idea of hot water, another luxury enjoyed by the Brotherhood in Nylan, never seemed more welcome.
“Krystal…Wrynn…long knives…use the wooden ones.”
My feet found their way, somehow, to the lockers where I stripped off the padding and the loose exercise clothing that I’d been supplied.
“She was a little hard on you.” Demorsal was leaning against the wall.
“…Ummmmm…” The tunic was halfway over my head.
“But that’s because you’re fighting yourself, and you don’t even want to admit it.”
“Not you, too?” I pulled off the tunic. “Just what the hell do you mean? Everyone keeps telling me not to fight myself.”
“I shouldn’t tell you…Talryn says that we all have to discover ourselves.”
“Talryn be damned,” I muttered, sitting on the bench and pulling off the soft exercise pants. I was going to be sore—really sore, shower or no shower. “At least, tell me how to keep from getting killed the next time.”
Demorsal grinned. His black eyes twinkled. “I just did.” He wasn’t much taller than Tamra, but she never seemed to lay a staff on him. Neither did I, but he didn’t hit me except lightly.
“I’m stupid. Tell me in another way.”
“You got decked when you tried to attack. Every time. Why?”
I shook my head. I wished I hadn’t, and put it between my hands to keep it from coming off.
“I’ll ask it another way. Why did Tamra hit you the hardest when you attacked? Why don’t I hit you hard when we spar? You leave openings, you know, especially when you try to attack.”
“I don’t know,” I groaned. Questions I didn’t need, not when my head was pounding.
“Because I have the same problem. I can’t attack.”
About that time I finally realized what he was saying. Finally. “Is that why I wasn’t allowed edged weapons?”
Demorsal looked around the lockers. “You believe in order. You have to. Use of weapons conflicts with order. For you to make an attack, you have to fight yourself first, then your opponent. You can’t help getting clobbered that way.”
I looked at him. “Tamra uses a staff, and she clobbered me.”
“She’s a little crazy, but think about it…she hit you hardest when you attacked…and I’ve probably said too much. Hope you feel better.” The senior apprentice turned as I stood up to head for the showers.
The pieces fit, but I didn’t like it. Then again, I didn’t have to like it. If I wanted to survive, I just had to adapt to my own limitations. But I didn’t have to like it. I certainly didn’t.
XIII
WHEN I HAD free time, usually in the afternoon of our rest days—every eighth day of the Temple calendar—I still walked down to the harbor area in Nylan, checking the scattered ships from across the oceans, seeing how many countries traded with Recluce and how.
Were they using steel-hulled steamers, or wooden-framed square-riggers? I never saw anything resembling a galley, although Magister Cassius indicated some coastal states to the far southwest of Candar, the ones around the smaller Western Ocean, operated slave galleys for coastal defense forces.
I always looked for the telltale sign of concealing screens and for the black ships of the Brotherhood that no one ever talked about. I didn’t talk about them either, since I wasn’t about to admit I had seen them unless someone else already said something. None of our dangergeld instructors did.
It was the same old story. If I asked about something and they didn’t want to talk about it, the answers were always platitudes or so vague that I already knew most of what they said.
Still, I kept visiting the harbor